Born of Fire
by Lovable0Elf
Summary: When Kenny stops being visited by Death, he knows something is wrong.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Born of Flame

**Author:** Lovable0Elf

**Summary:** When Kenny stops being visited by Death, he knows something is wrong.

**Rating:** T for now, may go up later

**Warnings:** Some swearing. May be SLASH (m/m relationship) later on: beware if that bothers you.

**A/N: **If I get enough reviews, I'll continue this, but if no one likes it enough to bother, don't count on it. I know that Kenny might seem a bit OOC in this first chapter, but it's more of a prologue and background chapter. His 'voice' isn't meant to shine through too much. This is based in the future, when the boys are about… 15 or 16, I guess.

Critique appreciated – I want to improve my writing. I know it's not great right now, and I'm hoping to improve upon it. But if you just want to give me a quick "I love this story" review, that's fine too. I do prefer, of course, to know what you love about it… but I just like to know I'm appreciated, so anything is fine.

My birth was a complicated one.

If you can call it a birth, anyway… I was more of a creation, really.

You see, even Death someday grows weary of his post and must find a way to give the blessing and the curse to a new host. But not just any old person will do.

Death is always delivering souls from their bodies down to the underworld – it's his job. Well, when he found characteristics that he liked in souls that he brought down, he would tear that soul apart and take parts that he wanted. The rest he let go down to Hell. (What it must be like, I wonder, to 'live' in Hell with a part of your soul forever missing…)

He gathered the parts of the souls in a magic-blown glass vial. After years of searching and collecting, he created a huge fire in the deepest part of hell – with Satan overlooking the process – and while the flame burned high, he stood atop a cliff that hung over the heat and he chanted. The chant itself I do not know… I understand very little of the process. While chanting, he took the bottle filled with enough pieces of soul to make a human being and held it above the fire.

He spoke. The words or their meaning, again, I have not been told. When he had finished speaking, he slashed the vial with his scythe and it shattered – the souls, bound by the magic of the scythe, were forced down into the midst of the flames…

The fire formed into a high spiral twisting, burning heat, glowing blue for a few moments before crashing back down and turning back to its normal shade of orange again. The flames twirled and danced, I'm told, like carefree playing children… and then they stopped. All was dark and silent…

Until I began to cry.

I was lying just in the middle of where the fire used to be, naked and screaming as newborns will do. Death glided down to where I lay and picked me up in his bony grasp; almost immediately, I fell silent and looked up at him with big blue eyes.

He could not keep me in Hell, he decided. I needed to be raised by people of good value and mortality, so I could learn from the humans themselves just what life and death is all about. He brought me up to Earth in the dead of night and brought me to a small mountain town.

"This will be a good place," he is said to have whispered to my sleeping form. "You will enjoy a normal life amongst the humans, with a family that can care for you until it is your time to take over. I will see you soon."

He delivered me to the house that I now know as my own. My adopted parents, whom I have come to love dearly, took me in with open arms when they read the note attached to my overly large orange parka.

_Kenneth needs a loving family to take care of him until Death is ready to bring him home. Please, give him the love of a family, and take care of him in every way you can._

And that they did.

As it turns out, Death is not as strong as one would think. For though I was only a baby, he desired to see me, his creation, again. As an immortal being of Hell, he can only travel to Earth when he is called and to where the dying person happens to be. There was really only one option.

He killed me.

After he had visited with me, he delivered me back – this, I have been explained, is something he can do with me because I was born from him. The magic in his scythe that he used to "create" me gives me the underdeveloped power of death itself.

My return brought great surprise and glee to my new family – surely my heart had been stopped for the past two hours? How, then, was I alive now?

Those answers have not been answered to them. Over time, I think they finally decided that it really doesn't matter… it has simply become a fact of life, so to speak. Every week or so, I die. Within a day, usually, I come back… sometimes we visit longer, Death and I.

We have become quite close, you see. He has become just as much of a father to me as my McCormick dad has, if not more so. We get along very well, and he loves to hear of my adventures on Earth, just as I love to listen to his stories of how I was created and delivered to my Earth family and all about his own voyages to and from Hell.

What goes on when I die is a secret that I have been bound to keep. I have never felt the urge to tell anyone, not even a little bit. No one has ever asked me. I suppose it has something to do with the fucked up things that happen every single day in South Park… one more whacked up routine isn't going to change much of anything, right?

And so my life has been since Death dropped me off with my family. I made three great friends, some not so great friends, and a few enemies as well. My family doesn't take great care of me, but they love me, and I feel that it's enough. I see Death often.

Or, I used to.

Suddenly, just over three weeks ago, he stopped calling to me. I began to worry after the second week… he had mentioned that something had not been feeling right for months.

"Kenneth, I fear something is not right," he had said through his own hood. I like watching him talk – his skeletal head never moves much and the only time he moves his jaw is to clack angrily when he's in a mood. "Indeed, I have been feeling for months that there is an imbalance. In more recent days, the sensation has increased to the point at which I now stand… I am afraid, little one."

He said little else on the subject. Now I wish I had prodded him for more information… I have no clue as to what I should do next. But I want, no, I _yearn_, to tell someone, anyone, about the situation. _I can't_, I remind myself for what must be the millionth time. _I promised that I would never tell a living soul._

"But I think," I murmur to the dead, dry old leaf in my hand, "that this is an extreme circumstance. I can't do anything on my own… I need help."

And so it is help that I now seek.

**A/N:** If you want more, you'll have to review. If not, then obviously you won't want to review. Heh. But really, if you don't like it… please tell me why so I can improve, yes?


	2. Help

**A/N:** So sorry for such a late update, guys. And it's effing SHORT too. Ugh. But I wanted to get this out as soon as I could after I started writing again so y'all would know I'm still alive. Hehe, anyway… between the holidays, a family tragedy and a Tweek-centric fic (complete with Creek!) in the works as well, I had a tough time with this. My next update will be much sooner (and longer, hopefully!).

Enjoy! As per usual, if you see anything wrong with anything (grammar/spelling, personality, writing in general, etc, etc.) please feel free to point it out. I'm aiming to improve!

**Maniacx3:** Thanks! I'm glad you like it.

**Bethany C. MacKenzie:** Hehe, yes, I did. It's a weird thing with me... whenever I start to like characters, I always look up their names and have fun with their meanings. Thanks; I hope you continue to like it... but if you stop liking it, make sure to tell me why. xD Thanks for the review!

**SangSeiku:** Thank you! Most of my ideas suck ass, so when I actually think of a good one, it's a big thing for me. xD I'm glad you like it!

###

I need help figuring out what happened to Death; but who do I turn to? I don't know anyone who would know even half as much as I do - surely no mortal could be of assistance. I sigh as I continue my meander through the streets of South Park. My first thought had been to kill myself (obvious, right?) but I quickly dispelled that idea. I'm not sure what might happen if I were to die and Death was not there, or if another being had taken his place. I might never return and that really isn't something I'm quite ready for.

I kick aimlessly at a stray cat that I pass and consider my options. I could always ask Kyle if he can think of something intelligent for me to do; he's one of the smartest guys I know. Nevertheless, I really don't think he could be much help in this particular situation. Chances are, the most I'll get from him is a lecture for keeping my connection with the Immortal Realm a secret for so long. I could talk to Stan or Butters, but frankly, between either of them and Kyle, I think I'd be better off with the Jew.

I'm awoken from my reverie when I collide painfully with something hard. I step back in surprise and then look up to realize that I had walked myself right into the front door of Eric Cartman's house. I blink - is this some sort of sign? I glance downward in uncertainty before raising a brown-gloved hand to knock on the wood.

_"The Immortal Beings send messages and signs to their mortals every day, but very few notice them as often as they're sent," Death told me once._

_"Why don't they make themselves more clear if they want them to obey their wishes?" I had asked, frowning._

_"It is one of the many laws that we must obey. Interaction with those on Earth is quite limited. The Almighty God wouldn't want us lesser gods interfering too much with life. Hence, we can enforce our whims on those mortals that believe in our existence, but only to an extent. When you see something unusual or if the unexpected happens, follow through with what it leads you to; it could very well be precisely what you're looking for. I am not the only immortal on your side, young one."  
_

Mere seconds later, the door opens a there stands Cartman himself, bearing a large donut and an even larger scowl. I grin cheekily at the snack in his hand and he immediately becomes defensive.

"What are you looking at?!" he snaps, his frown deepening. Suddenly he catches the glint in my eye. "Ay! This is my donut," he growls, pulling it further from me as though I was just about to snatch it from his hand.

"Never mind that; look, I need your help with something big," I say and, after catching his skeptical eyebrow raise, I continue with, "don't make me beg dude, this is really serious."

He seems to understand my urgency, for his next move is to step back from the doorway and motion for me to do the same. I enter his warm, inviting house and follow him up the stairs to his room. Upon entering, he pounces on his bed and, nibbling on his donut, turns to face me.

"Well?" he asks sharply, eyes scathing, "What's your 'really serious' problem, Poor Boy?"

I sigh softly and bite my lip. Where to start? What to say? I spend several long moments in contemplation. He growls in impatience and I decide to keep it simple.

"I- I- I need help finding someone," I stutter out, nerves getting to me.

"...and who, may I ask is so important that we find?"

I lick my lips. "Death."

His eyebrows shoot upward. He has the strangest look on his face now; he looks to be somewhere between totally freaked out and quite awed. At this point I'm not sure If I should say anything to him now or wait until he himself has remembered how to speak.

I decide upon the latter. It takes only a few moments for him to regain his composure. He grins toothily at me, a dark glint in his eye.

"And what the fucking hell makes you think I'll help you, you poor piece of shit?"

I frown. His sudden hostility has me suspicious. I get the strange (but irrational, surely) feeling that he knows something of the situation. His haughty expression falters for a moment.

"Whatever you know, tell me now," I say. He knows something, I'm sure of it now. What, I have no clue... it probably isn't even important. But it could be and I need to know all that I can.

"No," his eyes narrow, "I want to know what's going on first. You barge into my house, dirty my carpet with your disgusting Welfare-contaminated shoes and start asking me about Death - I want an explanation and I want it NOW." He huffs and crosses his arms in a childish pout.

I growl softly. Here we go...


	3. Daydreams and Nightdreams

**A/N:** Okay, here's the deal: I'm going to try to update more often, but they'll be in increments about this size and smaller, which I know is kind of pathetic. My AP Biology teacher gave me the wrong pace chart, which got me a month behind… and the test (which can only be taken once a year) is in May. I have to get more than a month ahead in a class I was already struggling in AND actually understand what I'm learning. It's interesting and enjoyable, unless I'm cramming like I am now.

Long story short: I'm fucked. I don't have much time for writing, so most of it takes place in the car and crap. Lol, I know it's hard to believe, but school DOES come first in my life. I NEED to get a good grade in my class and on the test.

So, I'm sorry for a late update and, again, I'm going to try to get as much writing done as I can in what little time I have for it. I really enjoy this story and all of the reviews and story/author alerts really make my day! As usual, if you see any mistakes… you know what to do!

**loozje**: Hmmm… Who knows? Hehe, thanks for the review!

**Bethany C. MacKenzie:** Bwahaha! I hate cliffhangers… but I couldn't think of where else to leave off, and I was kind of rushed. Thanks! I'm trying to keep them both in character (Kenny's character is kind of vague anyway) but that's something I've never been very good at. I'm working on that though! Thanks very much for your review! I really appreciate knowing what I'm doing well.

**Maniacx3:** Thank you so much! I hope this chapter is just as good, if not better. Hehe… you'll soon find out!

**NovaCaineIsAddicting: **Wow, thanks! I wish I could see my writing style from someone else's view – I always hate it, myself. I'm really glad to know you love it so much.

And a big **thank you** to everyone who added me and/or this story the their author/story alert list! I love getting those e-mails.

**Warning:** A bit of somewhat graphic-ish descriptions of blood and killing in this chapter. There'll undoubtedly be more in the future as well. You've been warned!

###

"Well?" he snaps, eyes glaring accusingly into mine. I figure that my best bet at this point is just to tell him what he wants to know so that he can return the favor. But where to start?

"I know something is wrong with Death because, well... because I haven't died in so long. We-" I hesitate again. "We know each other pretty well and he likes to see me so he usually keeps in touch."

I find myself unable to tell him the full truth. Can you really blame me though? He gets medieval on Kyle's ass for being Jewish; can you imagine how much he'd rag on me if he were to know of my origin? At least Kyle is HUMAN, for fuck's sake!

He frowns skeptically.

Damn.

"I see. And why, my dear Kenneh," here we go, "do you assume that your failure to die means that something horrible has happened to your precious... Death? Maybe he just doesn't want anything more to do with your po' ass, didja think of that?"

Double damn.

"No." This is it. How will he respond to my admittance? "I'm his creation. His son, in a way... I'm sure he's not avoiding me."

I'm tense, waiting. He looks confused for a moment but an expression of comprehension soon shows upon his face.

I'm tense, waiting. I watch him keenly for signs of how he might be taking this information, but his face remains totally expressionless. After a few seconds (it felt like so much longer) his green eyes, still devoid of any discernable emotion, meet mine and he leans forward slightly, "I knew you weren't human," he whispers, face now adorning a small smirk.

"You did?" I'm skeptical. He's probably just saying that to sound smart. Stupid dick.

"When people die, we stay dead. You always come back and that's just not something a human can do. Even I know that much; you don't have to be a rocket scientist to guess as much."

"Right," I reply stiffly, suddenly aggravated. Mentally, I scold myself as a wave of unadulterated fury washes over me. I have no reason to be feeling so angry with him. I'm used to his haughty mannerism; he's acted like that his whole life, how could I not be? I'll put it off as stress for now. I have more important things to worry about, after all.

"I'm hungry," Cartman complains suddenly, attention lost entirely. "I need something to eat."

"I think you can hold off on food for long enough to tell me what the fuck you know about Death and don't even try to tell me that you don't know, 'cause I know you too damn well for that." He frowns at me in an almost disgusted manner. I feel the sudden urge to press a knife to his fat throat and demand an answer. The thought of a piercing blade gliding through his skin, blood flowing down his body and over the knife, onto my hand, brings indescribable pleasure to me. Slowly I bring my blood-drenched hand to my tongue and–

I scream aloud.

Cartman stops mid-rant and a look of concern flashes over his face for just long enough to realize that I'm not hurt. His cheeks flush a deep red and he begins a loud, hypocritical tirade a out how he hates yelling or something stupid like that to cover up the fact that he has a heart.

I drown him out, lost in thought. What was that vision or thought or whatever the hell it was? I can't help but recall the happiness I felt as I killed my best friend. I shudder. What's going on?

"AY!"

I look up, only to see the very pissed-off face of Cartman only an inch (at most) from my own. "Do you mind telling me," he whispers, voice deadly, "what the hell is going on with you? You're not acting normal," he leans even closer, our foreheads pressed together, "and I don't fucking like it."

I pull myself away. "Just tells what you know so this whole thing can come to an end."

He hesitates for a moment before speaking slowly. "I can tell you, but nothing will 'come to an end.' As a matter of fact, it'll only make things that much more dire."

"Tell me." There's something odd about his voice now, and it scares me.

"Death has supposedly been captured and imprisoned by a band of wayward demons from the Southern Arasti Territory. Satan tried to find them, but they're gone - he thinks they might have skipped realms." My eyes must be as wide as saucers - how could he possibly know that? I would be skeptical, but I, myself, have been to the Southern Arasti Territory and your average mortal won't know of the Other Realms. Then again, I remind myself ruefully, when has Cartman ever been normal?

"How do you know that?"

"I dreamed it," he says, giving a little shudder. "I heard people – no, demons or something – talking about it and I haven't been able to get it out of my mind since. It's been haunting me."

_"Dreaming is a strange and wonderful thing, Kenneth,__"__ Death once told me. The two of us had been watching the mortal news on one of Satan's heat-resistant televisions. __"__Immortals have no need for it, for it is used as a gateway between realms. It is the easiest way for lesser and greater gods alike to communicate with those in the mortal realm.__"_

_I had heard much about my friends' dreams at that point, so I had found this information somewhat odd. __"__What about the dreams that are totally ridiculous, like dreaming about being the Ice Cream King of Russia?__"_

_If Death had eyebrows, I'm sure they would have shot upward in confusion at this point. Instead, he had just shaken his head and replied, "Not all dreams are messages, young one. Just some.__"_

_"__But why bother having dreams that don't say anything important?"_

_"__There are two reasons. The first, Kenneth, is to make things harder for us immortals than they ought to be – if most of the dreams had by mortals are pointless, then our communication with them is diminished considerably. The second reason is merely a conjecture: humans have very little in their life besides killing and love. Perhaps the Great Creators wanted to give them a little something extra to lighten up their lives before their inevitable deaths."_

###

**A/N:** I hope it was okay. I'll try to get another one up soon! Reviews are greatly appreciated. They inspire me.


	4. Of Murder and Suicide

**A/N: **Sorry for the double update again. Forgot to add in my AN's. Hehe. ANYWAY, just wanted to say that I have almost caught up with Biology and have also finished another of my classes and therefore will be devoting more time on this now. Yaaaay!!

**Bethany:** Hehe, yes, Stan and Kyle WILL make an appearance. Just not yet. Bwahaha! Thank you very much. I hope I can continue to write well.

**SangSeiku:** Thank you very much! I appreciate it!

**NovaCaineIsAddicting:** LOL, I haven't seen the Sweeney Todd movie -- just the musical. I don't do well with blood/gore when I can actually see it, even if I know it's fake. I'm conflicted, lol. Thank you SO much! I hope you keep on likin' it! Yeah, writing... it's so very complicated. But so worth it. Hehe, thanks very much for the review!

**Maniacx3:** Hehe, thank you very much!!

**..:** Oh wow, thank you! I've never had my writing be described as "god-worthy" before, LOL. I really appreciate it! I'm glad it's original. Whenever I write something I worry that it's similar to someone else's or something.

###

I'm lying on Cartman's floor, thinking.

A god or a very powerful immortal must have sent him the dream – but why? To help me? Possibly, but I have my doubts. If the sender really wanted to help me, he could have sent me the dream directly. As an immortal, I don't get dreams naturally, but I'm sure I could still receive one as a message. If I had gotten it myself, I probably would have been able to trace its source, which leads me to believe that the sender doesn't want me to know who he is.

_Is it a trap?_ It doesn't matter either way. I _need_ to find Death and help him, even if it means sacrificing my own freedom. He has done nothing but care for me and even love me, though many would say it is impossible.

"Cartman," I say suddenly, breaking him from his recollections of the dream. "Can you help kill me?"

"What?"

"You heard me, Fatass. I need your help. I need to kill myself to get into Hell but you're gonna have to do something for me. Something important." Drama.

He narrows his eyes. "And if I don't want to help your poor ass? What the lovely fuck are you gonna do about it?"

I smile and stand up, walking over to him. He pulls back but is too late – I wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze him lightly; he tenses and holds his breath. I try not to laugh – he's so damn cute! I pull back and pretend not to see his blush. "Cartman, please?" I bore my blue eyes into his own, giving him my best cutesy look.

I guess it works, because he grimaces and curses like a drunken sailor, avoiding eye contact with me. He doesn't say anything, but I understand the signals.

"Grab a gun and follow me," I demand. His eyes widen slightly and a look of apprehension flashes across his chubby face, but once again, I ignore him. He reaches underneath his bed and pulls out a large box full of various knives, guns, etc. out of which he pulls a nice-looking gun.

"This good?" he asks. I nod.

He begins putting the lid back on the box and I reach out a brown-gloved hand, stopping him. "Hang on," I insist. "I want to be prepared." I pull another gun, rather small, out of the box and he puts the container away. We walk to Stark's Pond, guns hidden, with a gloomy silence hovering over us.

"What am I supposed to do?" He gives me a sideways glance as we enter the cluster of trees around the pond, making me somewhat uneasy. I look around to make sure we're alone and, satisfied, reply in a nerve-wracked whisper. I can't explain my anxiety; maybe it's just the stress.

"I'm going to kill myself," I explain, "and all I need you to do is stay with my body, or keep it with you or something. I don't want it getting lost."

"That's it?" he asks incredulously.

"Yep. Simple as that." I walk into the thickest section of 'forest' and pull out the gun, taking a deep breath. Cartman stands a few yards away, watching. He's used to me dying, so I don't think he's too bothered.

I prepare the gun to be shot and place the barrel in my mouth, flinching at the taste of the cold metal. Thoughts spin through my head in a rush and I feel a wave of dizziness wash through me. _Will I find Death? Is Death okay? Will I be okay? Will I come back? Will I ever see my friends again? Do I have the guts to pull the trigger?_

In a sudden movement, I reposition my arm and fire the gun; it goes off with a loud _BANG_, causing the trees to quiver. I falter.

Cartman is lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, thirsty for air. I remain whole and unharmed, slowly lowering the gun that I'm holding.

"Kenneh," he gasps out. I shake my head as he writhes in pain and, raising the weapon again, put an end to his suffering before taking my own life within a matter of seconds. Everything goes black.

###

_SHIT. What the fuck did I do?_ I'm panicking now as I fall down into Hell. _What was I thinking?!_ I wasn't, and I know that that is the problem. I remember killing Cartman – Eric Cartman, my best friend – but I don't remember telling myself to do it. Nor, in fact, do I recall telling myself _not_ to do it. I just know that it happened and have the vision, from my eyes, swimming in my mind.

I hit the ground and look around in anticipation, spotting a very pissed-off looking Cartman not too far away. Satan should show up any minute to tell him what's going on; I decide I should speak with first. I rush up to him. He sees me and I halt immediately at the look in his eyes; he's pissed. No, he's beyond pissed; he's mother-fucking "the Jew just beat me at something" pissed.

"Kenneh," he begins, voice dripping with malice. "Explain."

I lick chapped lips – Hell is very dry – and shrug uncomfortably. "I don't know what happened," his eyes narrow further, "honestly, I don't know what overcame me. I didn't have control."

When he still doesn't believe me, I continue hastily, "It might have been a higher power; maybe the same one who sent you the dream. They must think you're – eh – so important for whatever they need us for that they needed to bring you too." I decide not to think too hard about how that sentence made so little sense.

He contemplates this for several long moments, weighing it through his mind, I think. I guess he likes the idea, because he smirks and stretches backward, nodding 'wisely'.

"Yes, that makes sense. Whoever this 'higher power' is, he must be smart." I roll my eyes; thankfully my attention is quickly diverted.

"Kenneth." I look up to see Satan sauntering my way, yellow eyes shining with worry. "It's about time you showed up."

###

Reviews inspire me!


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